


Viridian

by kyrilu



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gellert Grindelwald is not portrayed by Johnny Depp, Angst, Captivity, M/M, Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8693662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: AU. Grindelwald manages to contain and imprison Credence after that moment of betrayal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite kind of HP fics are the ones where Voldemort finds out that Harry is a Horcrux and kidnaps him. This is my attempt at writing something similar for Credence/Grindelwald|Graves.
> 
> Many thanks to Callay and the HPTR/HPLV gc for putting up with my Credence/Grindelgraves feelings!
> 
> (Grindelwald looks like an older Jamie Campbell Bower in this fic, because fuck you, canon. Here is [a picture](http://iv1.lisimg.com/image/8441312/641full-jamie-campbell-bower.jpg) for reference.)

_I’m done with you._

Mr. Graves’ denunciation rang in Credence’s ears, sharp and terrible. It sounded like his mother preaching during meetings, naming each and every type of person who would be subject to damnation in hellfire.

Credence still felt the sting of Mr. Graves’ slap on his face. He felt numb and unmoving and _betrayed._ He stood there in the silent Bronx tenement while Mr. Graves searched for Modesty. He tasted bitterness on the tip of his tongue.

I thought I had magic. I thought he could show me.

I thought I had magic, he told himself again.

And when his breath sped up, a force inside of him writhing and gasping and clawing, he lifted his bowed head and he found that he  _did_ \--he had magic.

 

* * *

 

The walls shook and crumbled. Gellert turned away from Modesty, taking out his wand, and he saw Credence, wreathed in black.

Something inside of Gellert laughed.

He was a fool. Perhaps there was something inside of him that was too intent on nostalgia, after all. He had been expecting a child like Ariana Dumbledore, young and fragile and hidden, while he directed his attentions toward an older brother who leaned into his touches.

But it was Credence all along.

The boy needed to be restrained, he realized. After their last conversation, it would be difficult to talk Credence down.

A flash of inspiration seized Gellert. He took his time to gather himself, to face Credence, while he quickly summoned Scamander’s shielded Obscurus that he had shrunk down in his coat pocket for later study.

“Credence,” Gellert said carefully. “I owe you an apology. I was mistaken. You are...teachable. You are meant to be my side.”

Credence said, “I trusted you. I thought you were my friend, that you were different.”

An ugliness warped Credence’s face. His eyes flashed white and his fists were clenched, and he was shaking like the walls had been shaking. This was a kind of shaking that Gellert had been accustomed to calming, the boy blubbering after a particularly bad day with his mother--but he knew that this could not be easily soothed this time.

What was it that Albus used to do? He would draw away from Gellert with regret in his eyes, and he would retreat downstairs to tell Ariana stories. Albus was good at that, taking words and painting pictures with a flick of his wand. Sometimes Gellert would hear his voice drifting through the open window: _I know you think you’re too old for stories, Ari, but let me show you your favorite one again. The one about the dragon with scales as golden as your hair._

No--he would not think of Albus now.

Steadily, Gellert brought out Scamander’s encapsulated Obscurus, resizing it wordlessly.

There was a thick heaviness in the air from Credence’s swirling energy, but the shielded Obscurus brought in a new chilling coldness. Both of them seemed to be suspended in time: Credence, half-subsumed in his own darkness, and that dead force floating there lifelessly.

Gellert truly had no idea what he was doing, although there were vague half-formed theories he had in mind.

But that was the fun thing about experiments.

He twitched his wand, propelling the shielded Obscurus toward Credence.

They collided.

 

* * *

 

Basic spell theory dictates that when you are presented with an unstoppable magical force, you must meet it with an immovable shield charm.

However, that was how magical theory was taught to children. _Protego_ cannot stop the Killing Curse. _Protego_ cannot stop an Obscurus, either. The few documented cases of Obscurials recounted shield charm variants being shattered.

Newt Scamander had come up with a spell that could hold the separated Obscurus.

It was fascinating, Gellert mused to himself. Scamander was quite brilliant, but he wasted himself on his whimsical studies.

As for Credence...Credence screamed.

The boy lay crumpled on the ground, his knees tucked under him and his hands splayed on the dusty floor. Scamander’s Obscurus ate at him, shadow ripping shadow.

The shield parted and rippled. It swallowed Credence inside, extending to trap him while the other Obscurus kept him in check.

Gellert lowered himself downward to the ground to watch the process. He had never seen anything like it before.

“You, Credence,” he said, unable to keep the awe from his voice, “are a pure, unstoppable magical force. More powerful than any other in history. And this is your match. An immovable shield and another unstoppable force.”

Credence looked up at him through the shimmering shield. His face was wet with tears. Gellert smiled, and he brushed his hand on the shield’s surface as if he could wipe the tears away.

“This force here doesn’t have a host,” Gellert continued, softly. “That makes it near useless and powerless. But it still longs for a host, and it recognizes that you’re like its previous owner. The energy, the pain, the anger. My guess was right. It can neutralize you.”

“Let--let me go,” Credence said. His voice was hoarse and weary from the screaming. “I know you never cared about me.”

“Shh,” Gellert said, putting his finger to his lips.

He took in the sight of Credence curled inside of the magical field. Scamander’s Obscurus was wrapped around him, the wisps of black shadows like chains.

“I do care, my boy. I do.”

He pointed his wand. He watched as the sleeping charm made Credence’s eyes shutter shut.

 

* * *

 

Credence dreamed that he was cold and small.

" _Aestus_ ,” he heard someone say.

He felt warmth touch his skin, an invisible wave settling against him. When he looked up, he saw a woman with long, dark hair lying next to him on a bed. She was wearing a beige nightgown, and she was holding a sandy colored wand.

“I hope you aren’t cold any more, little one,” she said.

The press of lips on his cheek. Then, she took him into her arms.

Credence wanted to call out to her. But this--this was a memory, wasn’t it? He let himself sink deeper into her embrace, this impression of her, while the magical warmth still prickled and hummed against his skin.

“You performed your first accidental magic today,” she said against his ear. “It was when you were sleeping. You must have been rather cold and having funny dreams, because you did this.”

She lifted him up, turning them both toward the window. The window curtain was half-drawn across the misted glass.

Outside the window, a London plane tree stood in the grimy street. The street was covered with blankets of snow, yet this tree...this lone tree looked as if it had been entirely untouched by winter.

The other trees in the street were sporting bare branches covered in frost. But this tree had green, green leaves. Its trunk and branches were alive, restored to the state it had been in the summer.

The dark haired woman laughed, and it was a light and joyful sound. Credence never wanted to hear it end.

“That was you, little one,” she said. “You’re gonna be a powerful wizard one day.”

She kissed his cheek again and said something else, but the dream--the memory--was fading. The magicked warmth on his body was fading.

 _I think that was my mother,_ Credence thought.

Not Mary Lou Barebone, but before.

Before.

She had called him a name, but he couldn’t remember it. He couldn’t remember his own real name.

 

* * *

 

Another memory.

His palm was red and aching from the slap of his belt, but he felt a surge of happiness because for the first time he could remember, somebody had _protected_ him.

His mother had been struck down by a red light. She was lying motionless on the ground, unconscious.

“Are you okay?” Tina asked him.

Credence nodded, a jerky movement. He said, “You’re a witch.”

She hesitated for a second. Then, “Yes. I am. I’m not anything like what your mother says, Credence.”

He had known Tina only in passing--she had attended several meetings, and he caught glimpses of her in front of the church. She had often greeted him and started small talk, conversation stilted and tentative on his end, but she had always been kind.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said. Her expression was grim as she looked at the still form of Credence’s mother. “You should get out of this place, Credence. You’re a grown man. She shouldn’t beat you.”

“I--I can’t,” Credence said. “I can’t leave Modesty here by herself.”

He wouldn’t know how to survive, living anywhere other than here. He wouldn’t know how to support Modesty if he took her and ran.

“I have a sister, too,” Tina said, quietly. “Our parents died when we were young. It’s just the two of us.”

“How is it like with her, now?” he asked. “Are you--?”

She squeezed his unharmed hand. “We have a happy, stable life. We’re doing good, the both of us.”

 _Save me_ , Credence wanted to say. _Please find a way to save me._

But he knew he couldn’t ask that of a stranger. Silently, he watched as she healed the welts on his hand.

Magic. That was magic.

And then Tina was gone.

 

* * *

 

His eyes fluttered open. The shadowy mass that Mr. Graves had flung at him was still wrapped around his body. If he tried to push back at it, he felt a tight strangling hold grasp him and he couldn’t _breathe_ until he made himself relax.

He was restrained in that strange transparent bubble. Looking around, he realized he was no longer in the tenement where Modesty’s family had lived.

Instead, he was in a small room--it looked like he was in an ordinary apartment bedroom. There was a bed, a desk, and a chair, but there were no windows at all.

Mr. Graves was sitting on the chair, watching him.

Even though he had proven that he had that hidden, darker nature, Mr. Graves was fundamentally unchanged in appearance. There was still that intensity in his eyes. He still held himself confidently, determinedly, his black coat cloaked around him.

Credence couldn’t muster the immediate anger that he knew he should feel. He felt exhausted, almost resigned. He shifted inside of the magical bubble, and he said, the one question that had been nagging at him, “What am I?”

He didn’t think Mr. Graves was going to answer at first.

“You’re an Obscurial,” Mr. Graves said, eventually. “When a magical child suppresses his magic to a certain point, he can develop an Obscurus. It means that you were afraid, Credence. You were afraid of your mother.”

Credence said, “I killed her.”

Mr. Graves inclined his head.

“Is that what you want from me?” Credence asked. “You want me to--kill people for you?”

He thought of his mother’s corpse, scars on her face. He thought of the senator, violently and publicly killed as if it was an execution.

“What I want is for you to never be afraid again,” Mr. Graves said.

He laughed, a shaky and bitter sound. “I don’t believe you.”

“No,” Mr. Graves said. “Listen to me. You have been hurt your entire life, Credence, and you survived. Obscurials usually die before they turn ten. You have survived very, very long, and that makes you something right out of those biblical stories you have grown up on. That makes you a miracle.”

“A miracle is bringing the dead back to life,” Credence said. “A miracle is walking on water. I’m not a miracle.”

_I am a monster._

Credence always wanted to be special, but not like this. This was not the straightforward magic of wizardry. This was something different.

 _Perhaps_ , Credence thought, _perhaps I will die soon._

Mr. Graves had said he was already too old.

Mr. Graves seemed to read the thought on his face, and abruptly, he stood up from the chair. “You can control it, Credence. You will continue living and surviving, because I know you are strong.”

Credence was silent. He drew his arms around his knees. He sat in that transparent bubble, wishing he could break free, his darkness consuming everything in its path. And then, eventually, it would swallow him whole.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Graves locked him inside of that small room with only his troubled thoughts. Credence discovered that he could move within the confines of the bubble, and he settled himself on the bed in a sitting position.

With effort, he tested the strength of the strange outside force--the Obscurus?--once again. The tendrils tightened. Credence felt his breath leaving him and the light-headedness returning.

This time, he ignored the pain.

“Let me go,” he said, his teeth gritted.

He knew he had his own darkness. Credence reached into the boundless well inside of him, summoning the rage that had earlier fueled the parasitic force.

Take it, Credence thought. Take it.

He did not think of a tree with vivid green leaves in midwinter, looking as if dappled sunlight would touch it at any moment. He did not think of the warm or healing touches of a mother or a kind stranger.

He saw nothing but dazzling white.

 

* * *

 

Credence was dreaming.

He stood in the empty church where he had grown up and lived. The room was grey and lifeless and plain, devoid of any feeling of holiness.

I destroyed this church today, he thought. It was--desecration.

But in this dream, the church was intact.

His gaze affixed the simple wooden cross on the wall. He reached his hand out to touch it.

“ _Know ye not, that your body is the temple of the holy Ghost, which is in you, who ye have of God?_ ” he said, his lips almost unmoving. “ _And ye are not your own._ ”

And he was not his own.

Credence turned over his palm and it was bleeding.

 

* * *

 

_I am a monster and I am alone._

 

* * *

 

“Break,” he murmured, weakly, bringing himself back to consciousness. Darkness warred against darkness. “Please break.”

“No,” a voice said, and Mr. Graves was leaning over him. Fingers brushed against the magical shield and Mr. Graves cast it aside--he tore the foreign Obscurus away.

Suddenly, Credence was free. His mind was a swirling pit of chaos; his fingertips were leaking shadows. He opened his mouth to let out a cry, but then--

“ _Legilimens.”_

\--and something moved inside of him. Burrowing into his head and nesting there like it had belonged all along.

And then it spoke.

“ _I see your anger, Credence, and I see your pain. I need you to calm down for me.”_

“I don’t want to control it. You were the one who bound me. I wanted to be free.”

_“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that it would hurt you that much. I won’t bind you with the other Obscurus again. But you need to promise me that you will listen and you will control yourself.”_

“You’re lying.”

“ _I_   _am sorry,_ ” the voice said again, insistent. “ _I have a vision, Credence. A vision for the future. What happened to you should_ never _happen again. Let me show you.”_

Credence was suddenly immersed in a memory that was not his own.  As if he was reading with his own eyes, he saw a book before him.

“ _Ever since you were a child, you were a part of the Second Salemers, who see themselves as the successors to the Salem Witch Trials. I don’t think I need to tell you detailed accounts of what happened during the Trials. I am sure that your mother told you plenty enough.”_

Yes. The drownings and the hangings all. They were Credence’s bedtime stories and nightmares.

_“Your name--your mother’s name--is Barebone. Did she ever tell you about Bartholomew Barebone?”_

The memory suddenly shimmered, and Credence saw a drawing of a handsome stern-faced man with dark hair on the book’s pages. He realized, with a start, that the picture was moving. The man was holding a wand in his hand and scowling, the sketched lines of ink shifting with every moment.

“There were old leaflets in the church,” Credence said, remembering. Yellowed and brittle, pressed between the pages of a bible. “Ma said they were important. The papers were copies of documents that had been in her family for years. They gave the locations of evil places. Where witches gathered.”

Sometimes they would gather at one of the places--what was now an abandoned warehouse--and they would pray. It would always be empty. His mother told him that the witches had abandoned it, long ago, but the Salemers had to be there anyway. They had to make sure it was clean, absolved.

" _The_ _original leaflets were printed and distributed over one hundred years ago. Those so-called evil places were real._

_“Bartholomew Barebone tricked a witch into telling him about our world. He was one of the few non-magical people who knew of our existence and he wanted the truth to be revealed. He even killed three people in the process; they were not witches or wizards, but he thought they were.”_

“I don’t understand--why are you--?”

_“It is this one incident that led to the establishment of Rappaport’s Law here in America. Rappaport’s Law firmly separates the non-magical from magical. If you are magical, you cannot marry or befriend someone who is not. There are harsh consequences if you break the law.”_

Mr. Graves’ memory flickered once again, and the book page now showed a portrait of a middle-aged blond woman in flowing blue robes.

 _Emily Rappaport,_ it was captioned. _Fifteenth_ _President of MACUSA._

“ _Ra_ _ppaport's Law is, of course, America’s extension of the already existing International Statute of Secrecy. But that is another lesson for another day. Do you understand now, Credence Barebone?”_

The use of his last name almost sounded like an accusation. Credence tried to get his head straight, sorting out the information that Mr. Graves had imparted to him. Mr. Graves seemed expectant...almost passionate.

“I knew that the worlds had to be separated,” Credence said. “So this is why Tina had to stay away from me. Not only because she attacked my mother, but because of that law.”

But he still felt uncomprehending. There was supposed to be a larger point to this, but he did not know what Mr. Graves was driving at.

It was likely a trick, he thought dully. He did not trust Mr. Graves any longer. This was not one of their usual meetings in the dark alley, when Mr. Graves cradled his hand and healed it. Promising Credence that one day, he could even heal himself.

He knew now that Mr. Graves had told him that with no expectation of teaching Credence magic at all.

 _“It is not just about Tina,”_ Mr. Graves said in Credence's mind, impatiently. _“This is about you, Credence. Think, my boy. If there were no barriers like this between magical and non-magical, you would never have suffered. You would never have needed to suppress your magic. You would never have had to hear witches and wizards being called abominations and devils._

“ _I want this world to become a place where every magical child can be safe and free. We shouldn't cower in the dark and fear Muggles. We are above them. We should live in the light.”_

Unbidden, Credence pictured the dark haired woman who had held him to the windowpane in the morning, who spoke with admiration and pride in her voice.

He would have liked something like that. He did not know if he believed in this--c _rusade_ \--of Mr. Graves’, mixed with politics he was wholly unfamiliar with, but he understood.

But he still did not trust Mr. Graves, and something inside of him prompted him to push back against the presence in his mind. He mentally surged forward, wondering if he could figure out _how_ Mr. Graves could do this--

\--and he was submerged in a memory.

 

* * *

 

“We should live in the light,” a voice said, but it was not Mr. Graves who spoke this time. This voice had the slightest trace of an accent, perhaps German, and there was something warm and musical about the sound of it.

Credence saw a young boy with wavy golden hair, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt of an older fashion. He was perched on top of a desk, his eyes bright, staring intently at another boy who was sitting across from him on a chair.

Credence had never seen this boy before, but there was something...familiar about him.

“What happened to your sister was wrong,” the boy continued. “It’s almost sad, the way those Muggles are, how they live in darkness and they are unaware of our existence. We wizards could stop their wars and stifle their plagues with a wave of our wands.”

The other boy--red-haired and bespectacled--had a somber expression on his face at the mention of his sister. But he tilted his head and nodded. “It says something about us that it was wizards who created the Hallows. Death can be mastered through magic.”

“Death can be transcended,” the blond boy agreed. He smiled, and it was a sly and soft curve of his mouth. There was a strange air of whimsy about him, and Credence couldn’t tear his gaze away from this memory-boy.

“You know, Albus,” he said, “I think you’re the only person who understands me. Back at Durmstrang, I’d rave and rant about the potential of this spell or that, and they’d look at me as if I was mad. To think that--”

“--that a single summer could bring about new possibilities? A co-conspirator?” Albus’ returning smile was teasing, fond.

“A co-conspirator,” the blond boy repeated, with a merry look in his eyes. “I like the sound of that, although I think you are more than that.”

The boy reached downward, and his long, elegant fingers grasped Albus’ wrist. Fingers dragging from pulse to palm to fingertip, and Credence thought, _oh_ , because he knew this gesture, he knew this gentleness--

“Gellert,” Albus said, soft. His eyes were closed, and it was as if the only thing he could say was the other boy’s name. “Gellert.”

The scene suddenly shattered.

When Credence opened his eyes, sprawled on the bed with a gasp bursting from his throat, he was greeted with the sight of Mr. Graves standing before him.

“You should not,” Mr. Graves said, “have seen that.” His eyes were narrowed, and he loomed over Credence. His wand was drawn but, at least, it was not pointed directly at Credence.

“That was you,” Credence said. “You looked--different.”

“It is none of your concern,” Mr. Graves said, coldly. And the words made Credence remember who he was dealing with, and he couldn’t help the dark sparks that prickled on the surface on his skin, the Obscurus reacting to his indignation.

Mr. Graves seemed to sense the sparks in the air, and with effort, his expression softened. He tucked his wand away. He looked at Credence, his outward emotions now unfathomable.

“You will keep yourself under control,” Mr. Graves said. “If you do not, I will have no choice but to neutralize you again with the other Obscurus. I trust you don’t want to feel that pain again.”

Credence swallowed. He did not.

In the end, nothing had changed. He could have been back in the church with his mother again. There was no difference. There was none of the freedom that Mr. Graves had promised him.

For the third time that night, Mr. Graves left Credence alone.

 

* * *

 

Credence slept fitfully. His mother’s scarred face taunted him-- _I did this_ \--and he thought he could hear her voice admonishing him, telling him that he would _burn._

I think Chastity died in the church ruins, he thought. He wasn’t certain--wasn’t certain if he had killed his sister or not, too.

Modesty had been left in the Bronx tenement. She would likely be taken in by other Second Salemer members. She had seen him engulfed by the Obscurus; he knew that she had been scared of him, in the end.

Eventually, he slept.

He woke to the sound of persistent buzzing.

A bug?

He sat up in bed, his clothes rumpled and his hair in disarray. In bewilderment, he watched as a sapphire blue insect flitted in front of him--it must have got inside the room underneath the crack in the door.

Credence had never seen a creature like it before. It had a warped, elongated body and propeller-like wings on its head. It hovered in front of him as if it was waiting for something.

He brought a hesitant hand out, but then he halted upon seeing the needle like edge protruding from its body.

“Can you sting?” he asked it.

The bug _bzzzed_ in reply.

Credence cracked a tiny smile. It was a strange looking thing, and he was content to study it in the semi-darkness of morning, pretending that he was anywhere but here. Where could a creature like that live? Certainly not in a city. Maybe a jungle or a swamp, somewhere where you could see the sky so clearly…

A creak at the door.

Rapidly, Credence whispered, “Hide,” making a waving motion with his hand. He had a feeling that he should keep this creature a secret--and to his surprise, the insect obeyed, zipping into the folds of his suit. He could feel the creature pressed against the layer of cloth against his heart, warm and reassuring.

He wasn’t so alone after all.

He steadied and composed himself.

Mr. Graves entered the room. There was no sign of the ideological fervor or anger he had displayed last night; instead, he seemed to be calm and collected.

A folded stack of clothes sailed into the room, making a soft thumping noise as it hit the bed. Mr. Graves flicked his wand and a new doorway materialized against one of the walls.

“Make yourself presentable,” Mr. Graves said, shortly. “When you’re finished, you will find breakfast on the desk over there. Eat it and wait for me to return.”

He swept out of the room without another word.

 

* * *

 

The new door must have originally been invisible, obscured by magical means. Credence’s hand lingered on the doorknob, testing the shape of it, while he confirmed to himself that it was real. When he finally opened the door, he realized that the adjoining room was a washroom.

Credence mechanically turned on the faucet of the clawfoot tub and fumbled off his grimy clothes. The blue bug zigzagged out from his clothes, and Credence watched it make circles in the air as he sank down into the water.

He wondered how it would feel like to make himself blur into a shadow again and pull himself down, down into water.

Would it feel like a drowning or a baptism?

_(And he was not his own.)_

 

* * *

 

He dressed. He went back to the little bedroom and found breakfast on the desk. It was nothing necessarily fancy--a slice of toast, a cold cut of ham, canned fruit, and a cup of tea--but Credence found that he was ravenous. It was better fare than the food he ate back at the church, and a larger portion than he was used to as well.

He was licking the last of the fruit juice from his lips when Mr. Graves came in.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves said, his expression still unreadable, but for a moment it seemed like his eyes caught the line of Credence’s jaw. Credence felt a flush on his cheeks and he wiped away the traces of juice with the back of his hand.

Then Mr. Graves gripped his shoulder, and they vanished from the room, a squeezing sensation knocking the breath out of Credence’s lungs.

They reappeared in a place that was utter, complete blackness.

“I magically altered this place for you,” Mr. Graves said. He released Credence’s arm, and his voice now came from several paces to the side. “It should be able to withstand the force of an Obscurus without being destroyed.”

Credence said, “You want me to--change?”

“I told you that I needed you to control yourself. This is...practice.”

To change--to surrender himself to his own darkness. Credence did not want to, did not wish to, not at Mr. Graves’ command--and he didn’t know how to easily turn it off and on like the flick of a switch.

He knew that he changed when he was scared or angry. Right now, he only felt a paralyzing numbness.

“I can’t,” he said.

He turned his head in the direction where he had heard Mr. Graves’ voice and said it again: “I can’t.”

“Think of your mother, then,” Mr. Graves said. “Think of the marks she left on your palms. Think of the brimming magic inside of you being suppressed like a stifled candle.”

(“-- _You’re gonna be a powerful wizard one day--”_ )

Credence took in a breath. “No,” he said into the darkness.

“Then think of me,” Mr. Graves said, and Credence stiffened. Mr. Graves let out a soft, dark, laugh; Credence had never heard him laugh like that before. “Do you hate me, Credence? For the hand that I left on your cheek? For walking away? You stupid boy--”

“Stop,” Credence said, squeezing his eyes tightly. “Shut--shut up.”

He did not want to think of their every meeting. What Mr. Graves must have _thought_ about him every single time. And in a way, he had been right, hadn’t he?

“You were so desperate and trusting,” Mr. Graves continued, softly. “I did not know what you were because every meeting you were predictably weak. You wanted to be praised and touched and healed. I did not think you could be the Obscurial, not you.”

“I am,” Credence said. He opened his eyes, and he knew they were burning a bright, bright white. “Am I still weak now?”

Credence let go. The darkness swirled like a flowing fog, pouring out into the space of the room. He was a ghost, a sprite, a demon. Bodiless and formless, wanting to strike and devour and wreak havoc.

Where was--?

“No,” Mr. Graves said. “You’re beautiful.”

He was--lying again--

“To think you had this inside of you the entire time,” Mr. Graves said. “I was so blind. Forgive me.”

Credence finally found Mr. Graves in the darkness--somehow, with these eyes, with these powers, he could _see_ him.

And Mr. Graves was looking up at him, and Credence saw something...real. It was not like how he had looked at him during their dark alley meetings, what he now knew as a facade of tenderness, but intense, hungry fascination. It was not love--it was not gentleness--but there was something _deep_ about Mr. Graves’ gaze that cut into the core of his being.

No one had ever looked at him like that before.

“I have seen many things in a war of my own making,” Mr. Graves said. “I have seen dragon fire illuminate battlefields underneath the night sky. I have seen dark magic rituals resurrect unworldly, ethereal creatures. I have held death in my hand and mastered it--but there is nothing truly like _you._ ”

Credence, within the mass of the Obscurus cloud, was silent.

“You are a storm and a tempest,” he said in a murmur. “You bleed shadows at will--you _harness_ them.”

And Credence grabbed ahold of the darkness and made it bend under his hand. The black was dissipating, dissipating...he wanted his body back.

He wanted light. He wanted the truth.

He thought of the woman from his memory and the tree that bloomed green overnight. He seized his magic and he thought, _Show me._

When his feet touched the ground, he had a light floating from his palm. He held it in front of him and he saw a man who wasn’t Mr. Graves, but the boy from the memory, all grown up, around forty years of age.

He was still golden haired. His hair hung down to brush his shoulders, framing a face with sharp, regal angles and the cut of cheekbones. His eyes were a piercing blue gray. There was stubble sprinkled around his mouth, and he was smiling, something like amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You’re always full of surprises, aren’t you, Credence?” the man said, his voice tinged with that unidentifiable accent. He held out his wand, the tip lighted blue.

With a start, Credence closed his palm, the strange fire that he had inexplicably summoned extinguishing as if it had never been.

“Who was that other boy?” Credence asked. “Who was--Albus?”

“He was...a single summer for me in the year of 1899,” the man said, the mirth gone from his eyes. “It was a long time ago.”

The man who was not Mr. Graves turned and Credence couldn’t see his face. “I have business to attend to, Credence. That was quite the demonstration. I expect that you have much to think about.”

“Think about--?”

“Trust. Forgiveness. Control,” said the man who was not Mr. Graves.

 

* * *

 

Credence stared at the ceiling of the small bedroom, lying on the bed flat on his back. The blue bug, which had hidden underneath the bedsheets when he was gone, was now making lazy loops in the surroundings.

Mr. Graves, Credence thought, had disguised himself with magic. He had hidden his true face and name. He didn’t like non-magical people and the laws that magical people had passed, because he said that magical children could be harmed.

He had lied to Credence. He had wanted to use him to find the Obscurial.

Now he knew that Credence was the Obscurial and imprisoned him. He had suppressed Credence’s Obscurus with that dead one, and it had hurt, and Credence knew that the threat of it being imposed on him was still hanging over his head.

And then he told Credence to forgive him.  

 _(“--You’re beautiful--”_ )

Who was he really? What did he want?

Credence...did not want to be here. He didn’t want to be stuck with this man who was not Mr. Graves. There was something frighteningly, terrifyingly compelling about him, and it scared him.

A revelation struck Credence.

He looked at the blue bug. “Did Tina send you?”

_Tell her I’m here. Tell her to find me._

 

* * *

 

It was around afternoon when he heard the thumping noises from the washroom.

“Are you sure he's here?” an unfamiliar voice was saying in a British accent. “This place doesn’t seem like a place you’d kidnap--”

Heart pounding, Credence rushed to the washroom. There was a stranger there, a man with tousled brown hair and a blue coat. He was talking to the blue bug, which was spinning around in front of him.

“Hello,” Credence said, suddenly uncertain. “Did you send that--creature?”

“You’re Credence, then?” the stranger said. “Tina has talked a lot about you. She heard you say her name to my Billywig--he was tagged with a tracking charm--and she was surprised that the Obliviation didn’t work on you like the other Muggles.”

“But that shouldn’t be a surprise, considering who you are,” the stranger added, and there was a sad, faraway smile curved on his mouth.

“I’m an--Obscurial,” Credence said.

“You are,” the stranger agreed. “I knew a girl just like you. She lived in Sudan and she was locked up for having magic.”

A girl just like him.

Credence’s throat was dry. “You can help me?”

The man didn’t answer Credence straightaway, and gave a shrug of his shoulder. Then: “I can. Let’s get you out of here first. That Mr. Graves of yours is trouble...he framed me and Tina, and we’re essentially on the run.”

“Who are you?”

“Newt Scamander,” the man said. He moved awkwardly to reach Credence’s arm. It was not a movement that seemed like he was _afraid_ of Credence for having an Obscurus, but rather he was uncomfortable, like he wasn’t used to human contact, and Credence knew he recognized it because he moved in the same way, too.

Mr. Scamander finally made contact. Credence knew to anticipate the squeezing sensation this time.

 

* * *

 

They reappeared on a rooftop. They were still in New York, with the cityscape sprawled all around and below--and when Credence pulled away from Mr. Scamander, he felt warm arms encircle him.

“Are you okay, Credence?”

“Tina,” he said.

She looked tired--there were circles underneath her eyes and her clothes were ruffled--but she was smiling in relief. “Modesty told us what happened. We were looking all over for you, kid.”

Credence stammered. He had never expected anyone rescuing him, not at the beginning. But circumstances changed, he supposed. He was an Obscurial and there were people in this world who thought he was worth saving.

“Jacob and Queenie are with my creatures,” Mr. Scamander said, abruptly. “I’ll pop in to see if they’re doing all right.”

Credence felt his eyes grow wide as Mr. Scamander disappeared down a suitcase that was lying open on the roof.

“He does that,” Tina said, grinning. “He’s very attached to his creatures. Those were Billywigs he had looking for you. You didn’t get stung, did you?”

Credence shook his head.

“That’s good,” she said. She sat down on the rooftop ground. Credence clambered down beside her. It was a chilly winter afternoon, and he shivered, not wearing a proper coat. Tina noticed; she took out her wand, and he felt pure warmth.

Like the mother in his memory.

“Newt told me that if a Billywig stings you,” Tina said, “you feel dizzy. And then you float up in the air. When our friend Jacob got bit, however, he got an allergic reaction. Magical creatures are always strange like that, but the ones Newt picks up are always peculiar.”

Credence nodded. It was calming, listening to Tina prattle on about Billywigs. He knew she was doing it on purpose to not make him feel automatically panicked or unnerved. It wasn’t condescending or patronizing, but reassuring; she had helped him before, and she had helped him again.

“Do you want to tell me what happened with Graves?” she asked. “Or the Obscurus? Your mother--”

“It was my fault,” Credence said. “I killed her and my sister and that senator. I know I shouldn’t have. I was--angry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. She gripped his hand. “Credence, I should’ve gotten you out of that place from the start.”

“You couldn’t have,” Credence said. He knew about the law. And she knew him for far too short of a time to recognize the Obscurus. “You found me now. Thank you.”

He looked out at the cloudy grey sky and he thought that everything was finally going to be alright.

( _“--there is nothing truly like_ you _\--”_ )

No.

He gripped Tina’s hand back, fiercely.

“Tina. Get away from the boy.”

Credence dropped Tina’s hand. Percival Graves was standing behind them--he was wearing that disguise again--and he must have somehow followed them. Followed Newt and Credence when they had vanished together.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves said quietly. “Come here to me, please. I thought we had reached an understanding.”

Tina was up on her feet at once, her eyes flashing and her wand withdrawn. “No, get away from him. He has been hurt his entire life. He isn't a weapon for you to use.”

The air ignited with magic. Tina and Mr. Graves were dueling on the roof--Tina with her arm sticking straight out and firing rapidly, and Mr. Graves with a looser form, his wand flicking and swishing.

Credence darted out of the way, and then he remembered. He dove to the ground and knocked on the suitcase and called out, “Please--you need to help Tina!” and Mr. Scamander and a blond woman emerged from the case.

“You must be Credence,” the blond woman said, with a hurried smile. “I’m Queenie. Her sister.”

They joined Tina in the duel. The colors were brighter, more frantic, the three forms twisting and dashing across the rooftop. There were bursts of fire and gusts of wind...

Mr. Graves was holding his own against three opponents. He struck Mr. Scamander down first, leaving him gasping on the ground from an electric blue spell. It was only Tina and Queenie firing spell after spell at Mr. Graves.

Credence felt the panic build up in his chest. This was-- _too much._  The Obscurus clawed at his chest. He did not want to change--he did not think he could control it right now--

It burst forth.

And that moment was the exact moment when a pack of wizards and witches suddenly materialized.

“MACUSA,” a wizard announced. “ _Stop this duel at once._ You’re in violation of--”

Then he froze when he saw Credence, who was standing there, leaking shadows, struggling to tamp the darkness down.

“That’s an Obscurial,” a witch from the group murmured. “It looks like that Mr. Scamander fellow was right. He’s the one who killed that No-Maj senator.”

Tina, Queenie, and Mr. Graves’ duel halted. Mr. Scamander, who was lying on the rooftop, still in pain, jerked his head up.

“Do not touch that boy,” Mr. Graves snapped. There was a wild look in his eyes, and he had his gaze locked on Credence. “Anyone who hurts him must answer to me.”

“He’s the Obscurial, sir,” a wizard said. “He must be destroyed for the sake of the Statute of Secrecy and Rappaport’s Law. We’re under orders--”

“He’s just a child,” Tina said. Her face was pale.

Credence, fading into the mist, managed to muster up a smile. “It’s okay, Tina. I’ll be fine.”

He knew that he perhaps could try to run. To soar away.

He didn’t.

“No,” Mr. Graves said, as all the wizards and witches trained their wands toward Credence. “ _No,_ ” he said again.

There was real, unadulterated anguish in his voice.

( _“_ \-- _You are a storm and a tempest-_ -”)

 _(“--You’re beautiful--”_ )

(“-- _we’ll all be free-”)_

“Gellert,” Credence said, looking at the gloomy grey sky and thinking of the golden haired boy from the memory, “did you mean it when you said that magic can transcend death?”

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in the New York streets, viridian green leaves burst and quivered into life on a winter deadened tree.


End file.
